Kismet seals family's pet fate -- for the better

Tina Parsons, Special to The Chronicle

Published 4:00 am, Saturday, February 12, 2005

Until recently pets did not thrive in our household.

Disaster loomed the moment yet another hamster skittered inside its metal cage. I'd watch it dodge and sniff and finally nestle into the fresh sawdust, content. The critter wouldn't survive longer than a week. And that was optimistic. I'd sigh and scan the yard for an unused plot, morphing into one of the doddering aunts in the '40s movie "Arsenic and Old Lace."

There, under the birch tree will do nicely.

The burying always fell to my husband, Don, a mild-mannered people doctor. Off he'd trudge into our suburban backyard-turned-cemetery, trowel in hand, muttering as our four kids watched.

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Over the course of a decade he's laid to rest enough snakes, goldfish, bunnies, hamsters and parakeets to fill his own James Herriot-style memoir: "All Creatures Dead and Gone."

Then one February afternoon, during a rain-induced lapse in parental judgment, we agreed to take the plunge and adopt a 5-year-old female Border terrier named Kismet. Given our track record, the name, which means fate, didn't bode well. Don and I fortified ourselves with dog care books and classes but feared the dreaded family-pet curse would strike again. And dogs were different; they were, well, almost human.

"I'm taking Kismet to college with me when I'm older," decided Michelle, our then-third grader, the day we picked up the dog.

"Pets aren't allowed in the dorms, sweetie," I said.

"Oh, OK," she replied, stroking the pooch, "then I won't go to college."

We'd been down this pet-to-college road before.

When Michelle's older brother Matt had turned 8, Don took him to the pet store, promising to buy "something low-maintenance." The pair returned with a glass aquarium, 5-pound sack of sand, heating rock, trio of live mice, and a golden snake that slithered along the kitchen counter when Matt set it down.

"He's a corn snake, mom," Matt explained. "The pet guy said he'll last so long I can take him to college with me some day."

A month later Matt rushed downstairs, panicked. His limbless future college-buddy hadn't budged all day. He felt cold. His skin had turned waxy. Even to a non-expert like me he looked sick -- like E.T. did in that oxygen tent the night he gave up phoning home.

"Mom -- call dad!" Matt ordered, refusing to accept that his father-the- internist knew nothing about creatures that didn't speak people language or sign co-payment checks. I called Don at the hospital and detailed the pet's condition.

"The snake's dead," he said.

"Uh-huh, right," I replied, pretending to take copious instructions. "Should I take him over to the animal hospital?"

"Honey, he's already dead."

"So ... do you want to explain that to you-know-who?" I asked; hand cupped over my mouth.

"You win. Take him to the animal E.R. Maybe they have snake healers."

Hands in rubber gloves, the emergency room vet met us in the waiting area, set the snake on a tray and carried him off. Matt followed. His three younger sisters stayed with me to watch the exam on the monitor suspended from the ceiling. The vet checked the serpent's vitals and returned with an update.

"He's pretty bad off. I'm going to wrap him in warm towels, get his temp up."

I wanted to say: Are you nuts? What is this, a pet spa? What'll that cost me?

"Good idea," spilled out instead.

An hour ticked by before the vet re-emerged with Matt, who hung his head and clutched a plastic zip lock bag with his permanently petrified reptile in it.

"The snake has passed away," the vet declared, his voice low. "Oh, and there's no charge. He was ... beyond help."

Later we held a midnight service in the backyard. I pointed the flashlight, Don dug, and Matt recalled his pet's brief time on Earth.

A kingdom of creatures came and went, including a trio of birds for Michelle, all given the same name: Callie, for California. The final Callie departed to the big aviary in the sky on a Saturday while the family had been out shopping. We arrived home and Michelle ran to her bedroom to check on Callie.

"Oh, no! Mom! Dad!"

Don looked at me and winced.

The grim pet reaper had struck again.

Heading to Michelle's room, I decided to try a Disney "circle of life" approach to Callie No. 3's death. Life, death, rebirth, happiness -- wasn't that how it went?

I found Michelle peering into the yellow wire cage that sat atop her dresser. "Is Callie drinking?" she asked, her voice quivering.

Callie's head and neck were submerged in the filled-to-the-rim water dish. The bird's aqua-colored rear feather tilted straight up as if out of Peter Pan's cap.

"Dad!" called Michelle. "Come help!"

When Don lifted Callie out of the water dish the bird's head flopped like a rosebud on a wilted stem.

"Can you fix her, dad?"

He set Callie on Michelle's bed.

"Let me think. Wait here a minute."

He returned with his stethoscope, knelt by the bed (praying might not be a bad idea), and leaned over to listen to Callie's almond-sized chest.

"You listen," he said, handing the instrument over to Michelle.

She fastened the stethoscope into her ears, her own breathing rapid as she placed the metal piece onto Callie's body.

"I can't hear anything. Did you, dad?"

Don shook his head. Michelle's blue eyes filled with tears.

"Should we have a funeral?" I asked.

"Not yet," she said, wrapping Callie in a sock from her dresser drawer. She put the dead animal on her nightstand. Two days passed. Her teen siblings pleaded with Michelle to put "that gross thing" outside. She declined.

On the third morning Michelle came to me wearing her favorite dog print flannel pajamas, her hair a mass of rumbled curls. Palms up, she presented the deceased.

"It would be OK now."

The family huddled together in a corner of the yard, shivering in the fog- shrouded chill. Michelle clutched one of Don's old shoe boxes. She'd drawn flowers, clouds and birds on the outside. On the inside she'd sprinkled dirt and grass around Callie.

"OK, Michelle, go ahead," Don said, nodding to her.

She gave the closed box to him, pulled a note out of her bathrobe pocket and cleared her throat.

"We will miss our Callie bird. He was a good bird ... but ... a pecky bird. Amen."

With that, Don lowered the cardboard casket into the ground and shoveled soil over it. Michelle did her best to look sad.

"A 'pecky' bird?" I asked.

"Yeah, she pecked me all the time. It really hurt. Can we buy another one now?"

It's been five years since Kismet, the pooch with the quirky name, arrived to turn the tide and vanquish our family's pet jinx. She's energetic and fit and greets us a hundred times a day with you-like-me, you-really-like- me slobbers. It's as if she can't believe her good luck.

We can't either. This calls for a celebration. Doggie treats, anyone?

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